


three foxes

by disheveledcurls



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Consensual Infidelity, Emotional Infidelity, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Harmony - Freeform, Hinny, Infidelity, NSFW, PTSD!trio, Post-Series AU, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, deconstructing the golden trio, depressed!hermione, dramione - Freeform, h/hr endgame, intermittently smutty, post-canon AU, romione
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:15:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25514152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disheveledcurls/pseuds/disheveledcurls
Summary: Once upon a time she ran through the woods as fast as her legs would take her, casting spells over her shoulder, fearing for her life. Once upon a time two boys took on a giant troll to save her. Once upon a time she felt entirely alone in the world, and then her best friend took her hand. Now her life is predictable, lonely, uneventful. They’ve all grown up, she supposes. But at what cost?(An exploration of Hermione’s life, and the future of the Golden Trio, following the events of Deathly Hallows. Multichapter AU, H/Hr endgame.)
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger & Luna Lovegood & Neville Longbottom, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 34
Kudos: 24





	1. nighthawks

**Author's Note:**

> Hermione-centric, post-DH AU, set approximately 5 years after the Battle of Hogwarts. Established/background Romione, established/background Hinny, minor Dramione, (eventually) H/Hr endgame. 
> 
> Chapter Summary:  The brightest witch of her age and a former Death Eater walk into a bar. 
> 
> Warnings: mentions of canon-typical violence, mentions of canon deaths, references to canon instances of torture, self-destructive behavior, alcohol tw, depression tw, nsfw, depictions of depression and PTSD

_The heart is deceitful above all things,_

_and desperately wicked. Who can understand it?_

**Jeremiah 17:9**

**july 1997**

In the summer of her seventeenth year, as she stands before Albus Dumbledore’s corpse, Hermione understands at last that war will devour everything. The smartest thing to do, the strategist’s move, is to get out of the way, and this is the choice that Hermione makes on behalf of her parents. Therefore she goes home, wipes their memories and sends them off to another continent, giving up her family before the war has a chance to take it from her. _This is your life now,_ she tells herself. _You belong nowhere_. It’s better this way, really. The less she holds onto, the less she’ll have to lose.

**february 2003**

It’s been another long, disappointing winter. Work has been tedious, she hasn’t seen her friends in months and her marriage has devolved into an exhausting, pointless cycle of petty rows, brittle truce and joyless make-up sex. It is a shameful thing to admit, but most days, she dislikes her life so very much that she almost misses the war. To make matters worse, today is one of those days when she plays pretend. By now it has become routine. She goes to work at the Ministry and sits behind a desk all day, shifting parchments around, signing and stamping others, sending and receiving owls, making small talk with her coworkers. When she is done for the day, she changes back into her Muggle clothes, joins the throng of wizards and witches leaving their offices behind and emerges among the posh denizens of Whitehall. After the stuffy warmth indoors, the freezing cold outside makes her shiver, reminding her of a time when she felt more alive.

She has told her husband that her parents are taking the Tube from Hampstead and meeting her for dinner somewhere in Camden or Primrose Hill, so at first she walks north for a while, just to kill some time. She walks unhurriedly, gazing around like a tourist, past Trafalgar Square and the National Gallery, past Leicester Square and Shaftesbury Avenue, where she can’t help but stop and stare at the diner where she and her two best friends were ambushed by Death Eaters a long time ago. At Tottenham Court Road, she takes the Tube the rest of the way to Camden. When she comes out of the station, she walks a little longer yet, across Regent’s Canal and past Stables Market, until she sees a pub that seems inviting enough and goes in.

It’s warm inside, and not too crowded, so she has no trouble finding a seat. It is a pleasure to finally sit down after walking for a while in mildly uncomfortable shoes. This is the kind of small victory she has to settle for, now. Her days of dreaming big ended when the war did, years ago. Now she lives in the sensible post-war era, a fundamentally pragmatic world of rebuilding and new monuments and bureaucratic handshakes, where the secret hopes and escapist fantasies of her adolescence have no place. She is supposed to be a grown-up now, after all. She is supposed to leave the past behind and make do.

She orders a glass of brandy, downs it in a couple of decisive swigs, digs a book from her handbag, props it up on the bar and sits in front of it for a long time, trying to read and instead daydreaming, remembering, pondering. When was the last time she felt truly happy? Was it when she was hired at the Ministry, when she got married, when she properly graduated Hogwarts? Or was it long ago, when the war still raged and she took a moment to dance with her best friend, heedless of grief and of danger? These thoughts are so absorbing that the world around her falls away for a while, until she perceives that someone is addressing her. When she finally pulls herself away from her reverie and turns around to see who it is, she finds herself looking at Draco Malfoy.

It takes her a moment to actually process what he’s saying, because her instincts are screaming at her to hex him and Disapparate. For a fraction of a second, she forgets it has been almost five years since the end of the war, forgets that she’s no longer a terrified teenager on the run. She’s already reaching for her wand when her brain catches up to her. Then she stops, mid-motion, and pulls her empty hand out of her bag.

Draco is sort of hovering next to her, not too close, watching her with an expression of polite concern. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, Granger,” he says stiffly, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Are you alright?”

Hermione lowers her tense shoulders and breathes. Slowly, she assesses her surroundings, grounding herself in reality. She is in a Muggle pub, surrounded by innocent people. The war is over. Draco Malfoy is no longer a Death Eater. He is not here to hurt her. No one is going to hurt her. Voldemort is gone. She is still here.

“Malfoy,” she says, looking up to meet his eyes. “Yes. Sorry, you were speaking to me?”

“I was asking if that seat was taken,” he explains, pointing vaguely to the stool right next to her, where she placed her handbag earlier. “I don’t mean to bother you, but the only other seat left is right next to the loo.”

It only takes her a second to confirm that he’s telling the truth. The place filled up while she was lost in thought, and now the only decent seat left is the one she has been hogging unintentionally. A lot of people are milling about, drinks in hand, greeting each other, laughing, playing dart. Set against such an ordinary Muggle backdrop, Malfoy’s presence feels totally incongruous. Nevertheless, Hermione clears the seat next to her and hangs her bag from the back of her chair. “You can sit if you want,” she says to Draco, who’s been standing by for her answer. “I probably won’t stay long anyway.”

He nods, his body language telegraphing relief. “Thanks,” he says, as he sits down. He orders a scotch and then glances at her quickly out of the corner of his eye. “I haven’t seen you here before,” he remarks casually.

She briefly considers not speaking to him, but decides against it. She’s bored and needs to kill some time, anyways. “I’ve never been here before,” she replies. “What brings you to a Muggle pub in Camden?”

“I was supposed to meet someone here tonight.” As the bartender holds out his drink, Draco reaches for it, mutters a _Cheers, mate_ and casts a searching look around the room. “But I’m beginning to think they’ve stood me up.”

“A hot date, I presume?”

Draco lifts his left hand and strokes the side of his face in a gesture that strikes Hermione as oddly vulnerable. “Actually, no. It’s more like a business meeting,” he says, sounding almost embarrassed.

But why would he be embarrassed? Hermione has no idea. She can’t even be sure she’s reading him correctly—she doesn’t really know him as anything more than the bully she hated for years, the poster boy for an ideology that advocated her annihilation. “A business meeting?” she echoes. “Pardon me for saying this, but I didn’t think you worked, Draco.”

His nostrils flare slightly, a hint of a suppressed laugh. “Well, I don’t really need to. But I’m trying to set up a business. This person I’m waiting for is a potential customer.”

“What sort of business?” she asks, intrigued despite herself. Seeing him lift his scotch to his lips, she remembers her empty tumbler and signals for a refill.

“Buying and selling magical artefacts,” he says, with a coy, unprepossessing attitude that she finds unrecognizable. “Antiques, memorabilia, that sort of thing.”

“Really. How’d that come about?”

He shrugs. “My family owns many treasures. And I know the right people.”

“Of course you do.”

She smiles tightly, makes quick work of her second brandy and orders an old-fashioned. This is shaping out to be the kind of conversation that requires her to be slightly inebriated. If Draco can make a habit of selling his family’s treasures, it follows that his ancestry and the supposed purity of his blood still count for something in the Wizarding World, no matter how tarnished the Malfoy name may have become through its association with the Dark Lord. She isn’t sure that he entirely deserves the chance to have a normal future as a prosperous businessman, all things considered, but oh well—it’s not her decision to make. After all, unlike his father, Draco is a free man.

“And you?” he enquires politely. “Last I heard, you were working for the Ministry.”

She hums her assent and lifts her hands out of the way while the bartender refills her tumbler. “Still do. I’m in the Magical Law Enforcement Department.”

Draco nods, as if this fits with the information he has. “I’m surprised you’re not on the Wizengamot yet.” Having finished his scotch, he, too, asks for a refill. “Being the brightest witch of your generation and all.”

Hermione’s brow furrows a little as she studies Draco, trying to ascertain if he meant this last remark as a genuine compliment or some kind of backhanded slight. As a matter of fact, on her very first day at the Ministry, Kingsley Shacklebolt himself asked to meet with her and told her that, should she pursue further training in Magical Law Enforcement and submit her candidacy, she is all but guaranteed a seat on the court. But as she hasn’t even shared this with her closest friends, it would feel weird, almost disloyal, to tell Malfoy about it. Instead, she says, “It hasn’t crossed my mind. I’m not terribly ambitious.” 

“No, you don’t seem it,” Draco agrees, with a touch of amusement. “I suppose being terribly ambitious is the purview of Slytherins.”

“You could say that,” she concurs, raising her eyebrows pointedly and sipping on her cocktail.

For a few moments, the conversation lulls and Hermione merely observes Draco, not caring if she is being impolite. To her eyes, he looks much healthier than he did during his last year at Hogwarts. Though he is still very pale, he’s lost the sickly, haggard look that plagued him during the year he spent being the Dark Lord’s errand boy, and his tall, lanky frame seems to have gained some build, his arms and shoulders appearing broader and stronger than they used to be. At the same time, he looks older than he is, and already some grey is creeping its way into his stubble and his temples, blending rather smoothly with his platinum-blonde hair. Hermione also notes his stylish, elegant hairstyle, the sharp lines of his face and the classic, yet exquisitely flattering dark-blue three-piece suit he’s wearing. For the first time in her life, it occurs to her that he is very handsome.

Grimacing at this sudden thought as if she’d found a dead fly in her soup, she finishes her drink and abruptly asks, “Do you still live there?”

“Where?” Draco says, startled, half-turning to look at her.

“Malfoy Manor.”

 _You know, the place where your aunt almost killed me._ It’s not like he needs the reminder. The very mention of the place brings back her worst memories, but she firmly pushes them back down and stays focused on the present—as focused as she can be with three drinks in her, anyhow. Looking back, she’s not ashamed that she wept and screamed and begged for mercy while Bellatrix tortured her: she’s ashamed that she allowed herself to get caught to begin with.

A shadow passes over Draco’s face and tension settles into his shoulders and the lines of his forehead. “Mother does,” he says quietly. “I have a flat here in London. I don’t often go back there.”

 _Lucky you_ , Hermione thinks. In her nightmares, she’s been back to Malfoy Manor more times than she can count. She hums to acknowledge his response and lapses into an awkward silence, while he shifts uncomfortably where he sits, assessing her with uncertain eyes. “Are you having another one?” he asks, indicating her empty glass with his chin.

“Sure, if you’re buying,” she answers unthinkingly. It just feels like the right thing to say and apparently it was, because Draco merely nods and gestures for the bartender, who refills both their tumblers. She doesn’t thank him.

“Seems like your contact ditched you after all,” she quips after a moment, clutching her second old fashioned to her chest.

Draco makes a vague sound of assent, looking around him unenthusiastically. “I had a feeling they may not show. Not many people are willing to be seen with me in public,” he confides, smirking ruefully behind his glass.

“Bit of an outcast, now, are you,” she says, a little too gleefully. “Serves you right.”

Rather than contorting into a sullen pout, as she expected, Draco’s face softens into something like a sad smile. “I would agree to that,” he retorts. “Only I daresay you don’t think that’s punishment enough. Isn’t that right, Granger?” Noting her stunned silence, he goes on, lowering his voice and turning his attention to a paper napkin, which he begins to fold in on itself over and over: “Maybe you wish I’d died with Crabbe when the Room of Requirements caught fire. Or maybe you’re working with the Aurors to find an excuse to throw me in Azkaban with my father.” There is no malice or cunning in his words, only a probing, cynical curiosity. “In fact, perhaps that’s why you’re here,” he teases. “You’ve contrived this chance encounter just to keep tabs on me.”

Hermione just stares at him, taken aback. She wants to tell him that he’s wrong, that she’s a good person and she’s never wished him harm, but she can’t deny that there’s some truth to his accusations. She does have a darkness inside her—a ruthless, spiteful and batshit side—but she makes a point of keeping it a secret. It’s frightening to think that someone so hateful and so distant knows this about her—and at the same time profoundly relieving. The truth is that she’s tired of pretending to be this perfect, all-knowing goody-two-shoes every day of her life, of the emotional and intellectual gymnastics required to fit into the shape created by other people’s expectations. To be seen as she really is, strange and complicated and imperfect and traumatized, would be equal parts daunting and exhilarating. Maybe there _is_ something to be said for hanging out with your former enemies. Who knew?

All of a sudden, for no discernible reason, her mouth is dry and her heart is thumping hard against her ribs. She remembers being thirteen years old and punching Draco in the nose. Then, inexplicably, she thinks about fucking him. The thought is disturbing at first, and then obscurely exciting, and then laughable. What is she even thinking? He’d never go for it, of course—and she’s _married_ , for god’s sake. It’s like her brain just performed a convoluted thought exercise and came up with the most fantastical situation possible—the utter opposite of her real life.

 _Yeah, well, your real life is pretty pathetic_ , whispers an insidious little voice at the back of her head. _Maybe you could take a walk on the wild side, for a change._

Hermione tells the little voice to go fuck itself and regains her composure at last. Picking up the thread of the conversation, she rolls her eyes and says, “Don’t be preposterous.”

“Well, you never said why you’re here,” Draco points out, widening his eyes in an expression of feigned innocence. “A man can wonder.”

Shaking her head at his presumptuousness and delusions of self-importance, she takes a moment to weigh a series of lies and evasives and finally settles for, “I’m here because I’m lying to my husband.”

“That doesn’t really explain anything,” he complains, folding his arms and slouching over the bar. “But I have to say, I didn’t think you were capable of such a thing.”

She shrugs. “Neither did I. You’re welcome to gloat, if you like.”

“Oh, no. My days of gloating are over.” He shakes his head, his gaze downcast as he unfolds his arms and begins toying with his glass, idly rotating it on its axis. “In fact, if you want to stay here all night, drinking yourself into a stupor and avoiding your problems, I fully support your decision.”

She clicks her tongue, amused in spite of herself. “Drinking myself into a stupor would be a tad much.”

“It is the Malfoy way,” he declares pompously, and she can’t help but laugh.

“There must be pleasanter ways to avoid one’s problems,” she counters, for argument’s sake. “Surely you can think of something at least a little more fun.”

He throws her a fleeting, mischievous look, the corners of his mouth curling upwards. “I don’t believe you’ve had fun a single day of your life.”

Hermione smiles tightly. “There’s a first time for everything.”

“In that case, you might want to try adultery,” he says. “I’m told that's very entertaining.”

“Oh, that’s brilliant, Draco, thanks,” she scoffs. “Are you volunteering yourself?”

He briefly lifts his glass, as if making a wordless toast, and then turns his face away—to hide a smile, she suspects. “If milady requires me.”

Hermione gapes at him a little, not quite believing the conversation they’re having. Can he possibly be flirting with her? She’s never been good at picking up on that sort of thing. Surely it can’t be. Draco Malfoy, fancying _her_. As if!

 _And yet,_ the little voice insists. _Stranger things have happened, haven’t they?_

“Blimey, you really are rehabilitated,” she huffs out, not bothering to hide her curiosity. “I mean, my goodness, what’ll your people say? Surely you can’t risk them thinking you’re involved with a Mudblood, can you? What’d that do to your reputation?”

Draco goes back to playing with his paper napkin. “My reputation’s already ruined, or just about,” he argues, still not looking at her. “Might as well do what I want.”

“Interesting. And what is it you want, Draco?”

Though innocent, her question hangs in the air, sensual and undefined, prompting a number of hazy, inappropriate thoughts. Draco meets her inquisitive gaze for only an instant, and something in his steel-grey eyes, serious and open, gives her pause. What if she was right, before—what if the same strange thoughts _have_ crossed his mind? She watches him stall, oddly fascinated by his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallows his scotch, by the way his long, almost delicate fingers scratch idly at the underside of his jaw.

“I’m not sure these days,” he answers at last, slowly and doubtfully. “And you? What do _you_ want?”

 _What I can’t have,_ she thinks bitterly, and with a quick glance at her wristwatch, decides it is time to leave. Things at home have been particularly tense ever since the big row last Christmas, and she doesn’t want to give her husband any more excuses to pick a fight with her.

Seeing as Draco is still waiting for an answer, Hermione enigmatically says, “To turn back time.” Then she stands up, collects her things, gets money from her purse to settle her tab and leans over the bar with the banknotes in her hand, trying to catch the bartender’s attention. As soon as she’s handed over the cash, Draco reaches out boldly and puts a hand on her left forearm, exactly over her _mudblood_ scar. Hermione freezes.

“I’m sorry this happened to you,” he murmurs, with his head hung low. “I’m sorry I let it happen, and I’m sorry for the way I treated you in school. I’m not asking you to forgive me. I just wanted you to know how much I regret it.” Then he quickly pulls his hand away and folds his arms, hunched over himself like a question mark.

For several seconds, Hermione just stands there, completely taken aback, as a host of emotions surges from deep within her, fury and contempt mingling unpleasantly with gratitude and relief. Who the fuck does he think he is, hijacking a perfectly frivolous conversation to offer this impromptu apology? It’s not like his being sorry after the fact changes anything. And what is the appropriate response? Does she slap him hard enough to mar his handsome face and storm off? Or does she break down in tears, hug him and say, _I forgive you_? Right now, Hermione doesn’t feel capable of either.

But what if there is a third possibility? She could simply proposition him, she realizes. It would be unheard of, self-destructive and wrong on so many levels. But what does she have to lose? Her life is already pathetic.

Hermione makes up her mind, shrugs on her coat and hears herself say: “You wanna get out of here?”

Draco looks at her over his shoulder, his eyebrows raised questioningly. “And do what?”

“Play darts,” she deadpans, rolling her eyes. “What do you think, Draco?”

It takes him a moment. Then, his jaw goes slack with surprise. “Granger, you’re drunk.”

“I only had three drinks,” she argues. “I’m not drunk.”

“Four,” he corrects her. “And you’re not making any sense.”

“I told you already. I’m avoiding my problems tonight. Are you in or not?”

Draco keeps looking her up and down, like he suspects she’s having a mental breakdown. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Will you stop fussing? I know what I’m doing,” she retorts testily, as she slings her handbag over her shoulder. .

“If you insist.” Excruciatingly slowly, like he’s giving her plenty of opportunity to change her mind and walk away, he finishes his last drink, stands up, pays the bartender and turns to face her. “Do we go to my place? Or is this a luxury hotel room sort of situation?”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Your place will do,” she says, her fingers drumming impatiently against her thighs. “As long as we get a bloody move on. You’re already getting on my nerves.”

To her surprise, Draco laughs. “Charming as ever,” he says, and then touches her elbow lightly. “May I?”

Hermione nods her agreement before she can lose her nerve. _World’s Worst Wife Award, here I come._ Draco loops his arm through hers loosely and they walk out of the pub together. Then they turn into a dark side-alley and Disapparate at once.

***

When they get to his flat, Hermione has to take a second to steady herself, her slight drunkenness and unfamiliarity with her surroundings making her stagger a little on her feet. She expected Draco to make the first move, but instead he lets go of her arm, takes off his coat and goes to hang it on a peg by the door. Then he turns, shoves his hands into his pockets and stands at a respectful distance, watching her expectantly.

“What?” she demands.

“I’m just waiting for the part where you explain how this is going to work,” he says calmly. “I assume you have terms and conditions?”

She can’t help but chuckle at his formality. “Terms and conditions? Christ, Draco, are you like this with all the people you shag?”

“All the people I shag aren’t married,” he points out, with a touch of exasperation.

She falters for an instant, a wave of guilt washing over her. Pragmatism quickly takes over, however, and the guilt creeps back into the dark crevices from whence it came. Hermione decisively takes off her wedding ring and tucks it into her pocket. The last thing she needs is to lose it in Draco’s apartment.

“Fine, let’s have terms,” she concedes, with a shrug. “One, I would appreciate your discretion, for obvious reasons. Two, if you even _think_ about hurting me or using this against me in any way, I will make your life a living hell.” She supposes she’s being harsh, even cynical, but she’s always been a _better safe than sorry_ kind of gal. “That’s it. What do you think?”

Draco nods, taking one step forward. “Sounds good. As long as you can agree to be discreet as well.”

“Of course.”

With tentative steps, he comes to stand before her, close enough that she can smell his perfume, catch the microscopic movements of the muscles around his mouth and eyes. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

She scoffs, assuming that this is only a pretense of chivalry. She knows this man to be an arrogant prick, she reminds herself, a selfish, spoiled brat who puts himself first whenever possible. He doesn’t care for her, nor she for him. This is only sex. There is nothing to fear.

“I’m sure,” she says stubbornly. “Now take off your clothes.”

***

Of all the things she’s ever experienced, going to bed with someone she once hated is perhaps the most bizarre. It’s sort of like turning hatred inside out and using that dark passion as an imitation of its opposite—all she has to do is let herself get carried away. They kiss sparingly and mostly with their eyes open, like foes too weary of one another to let down their guard completely. When she takes off her top, Draco’s gaze falls on her scar and he stares at it for a long moment, as if committing it to memory. The red, faded outline of his Dark Mark is visible too, now that he’s down to his undershirt, and she quickly averts her gaze. It’s strange to think that the war has branded them both, though in entirely different ways. Nevertheless, it makes perfect sense. Wars leave scars, everyone knows that. Some are just more visible than others.

Hermione gently grabs Draco’s jaw, directing his gaze away from her arm and up towards her face. “Just don’t touch it,” she says. “You may touch everything else. Okay?”

He nods mutely, but he doesn’t move, and she watches him, puzzled by the mysterious undercurrent flickering behind his sad grey gaze. Taking a guess, she casts an eloquent look at his left forearm and says, “Same rule for you?”

He nods again, this time more profusely. “Yes,” he whispers, wavering a little where he stands. “Please.”

In that single instant, his vulnerability is so unbearable that she has to close her eyes and crash her mouth hard against his, if only to wipe that haunted expression off his face. They barely speak anymore after that, merely giving each other the most perfunctory of instructions as they tumble around his flat, shedding clothes and touching each other (almost) everywhere, until they land in his bed. 

*****

Afterwards, she takes her time getting dressed, not because she wants to linger in Draco’s flat, but because her stomach is twisting itself into knots at the prospect of what she’ll have to do when she gets home. Only now does she understand why she has done this. A seemingly random, seemingly drunken act of infidelity can serve so very many purposes at once—punishing herself, punishing others and, more importantly, giving her the perfect excuse to free herself of her miserable life. _I’ve made a huge mistake,_ she’ll say—and she’ll pay the price. But when the dust settles, she’ll be left alone. Her life will be her own again. (Plus, she got a couple of orgasms out of it. Not bad for a decision made in the heat of the moment.)

Draco’s still in his bed, sitting up against the headboard with his arms folded round his knees and watching her intermittently. It’s like he is expecting some sort of verdict from her, whether it entails praise or rejection. Hermione doesn’t intend to give him either, too focused on her own inner turmoil. Soon she will have to leave, anyway. She’s crouching to peer under the bed for her missing sock when Draco breaks the silence.

“You’re doing this to bait him, aren’t you,” he muses. “Get his attention back.”

It’s quiet, but it startles her. Slowly, she sits back on her haunches and looks up at him, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. She will not debate Draco bloody Malfoy on the particulars of her private life, but she is physically incapable of letting him have the last word in any way whatsoever. “I already have my husband’s attention,” she points out evenly. “That’s why he married me in the first place.”

Draco frowns. “I wasn’t talking about _him_ ,” he retorts, sneering a little, like she’s missing something obvious.

She frowns back and shrugs, puzzled. “Well, who in Merlin’s name were you talking about?” She grabs her wand and points it at the space under the bed. “ _Accio_ sock,” she whispers. There’s a muffled, rustling sound and her missing sock comes whizzing out from under the bed at the same time as Draco says,

“Potter, of course.”

Hermione’s sock hits her in the face, bounces off and tumbles down to the floor. Only when she stoops to pick it up does she register what she’s just heard, and a cold shiver goes down her spine. If someone as self-absorbed as Draco can see right through her, maybe her secrets are not so secret as she would like to think. Maybe everyone knows what she herself cannot fully face, even after all this time.

The thought is terrifying. Hermione grew up fighting a war. When you’re at war, transparency is dangerous. She has a sudden urge to pounce on Draco and punish him for his cleverness, to shake him and hurt him and tell him to keep Harry’s name out of his filthy Death Eater mouth. But such a visceral overreaction would only confirm Draco’s suspicions. It would be a weakness, and as a general rule Hermione does not tolerate weakness—least of all in herself.

Therefore, she straightens up with her sock in her hand, tilts her head, stills her body and fixes her eyes on Draco, hoping that her expression is fearsome, willing him to believe that whatever she says next is final. She holds his gaze until he caves and looks away. “Why I do what I do is none of your business,” she announces, and in one swift motion she leaves the room, walks across the flat, picks up her coat, shoes, and handbag at the foyer and Disapparates.

A moment later she is turning her key in the lock and walking into the flat she shares with her husband. She hears his footsteps approaching as soon as she closes the door behind her, and when she turns around, he’s leaning against the opposite wall, watching her. 

“A little late, aren’t we?” he mutters, folding his arms over his chest. His expression quickly goes from sullen to confused. “Why are you holding your shoes in your hands?” he demands. “And why are you wearing only one sock?”

Ignoring this, Hermione inhales, exhales, and does something she should have done a long time ago. “Ron,” she says calmly, “we need to get a divorce.”


	2. sour flower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last night, for the second time in her life, she packed the essentials and left the place she called home without looking back. It doesn’t ever get easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set shortly after the events of ch1. Hermione POV + Draco POV in the final section.
> 
> Warnings:  explicit discussion of bullying and PTSD; mentions of seizures, counselling, unhealthy eating habits; nazism analogy; symptoms of trauma; alcohol tw; nsfw

“Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.”

“I should have called it: something you somehow haven’t to deserve.”

**robert frost, “the death of the hired man”**

**november 1999**

The party is loud and cheerful, perhaps the first truly joyful occasion since the end of the war. Celebrations usually feel wrong somehow, tainted by an unspoken grief which looms over them like a heavy shroud. Tonight is not like that. Tonight, everyone seems genuinely happy. Hermione cannot bring herself to spoil it for them. She has always known what is expected of her. There is a question, and only one right answer. This is what she’s good at.

Afterwards, the party gets even louder and merrier and she begins to feel dazed, both numb and overwhelmed by too many feelings at once. The fact that joy isn’t among them makes her furious. But she can’t lose her temper, not here. Muttering some feeble yet sufficiently convincing excuse, she declines the sherry someone is offering her, makes her way out of the house and dashes into the surrounding cornfield. Many plants wither as she barrels past them, but this doesn’t register over the shortness of her breath and the thundering of her heart in her ears. Finally she comes to an abrupt halt before a clearing that recent rains have turned into a miniature pond. Its still, rank waters reflect part of the night sky above—a lovely full moon and a handful of glittering stars whose beauty seems a mockery of the ugly feelings clamouring for her attention. Further away, almost directly above the Burrow, the Weasley brothers’ magical fireworks spell the words _SHE SAID YES!!!!!_ in red and yellow sparks.

A sudden vertigo brings Hermione to her knees beside the water. Turning her back on the pond, she presses her palms flat against the mud and tries to calm herself down. Panic overcomes her all the same. She will have to come up with another lie on her parents’ behalf, that much is clear—otherwise the wedding will be the end of her charade. The very thought of it is so dreadful, so exhausting, that the engagement ring that Ron just gave her suddenly feels heavy, like it’s dragging her down into the cold earth. Nevertheless, she resists the urge to take it off and fling it far away from her. Firstly, because it would be a cruel, unfair thing to do. Secondly, because someone is watching her.

Hermione instantly Disapparates to Grimmauld Place. When Harry finds her again, moments later, she’s at the kitchen sink, scrubbing her hands with detergent and picking mud from under her fingernails.

“Oi, where’d you go?” he calls out, as he comes into the house. “What’s going on?”

She hears his footsteps approach down the hallway. Instead of answering his question, she demands, “Why are you here?”

“You’re upset,” he points out, as he appears in the doorway and watches her scrape mud off of her engagement ring. “I thought I’d make sure you’re alright.”

“Well, you needn’t have,” she retorts, examining the ring closely. It needs to be spotless. “I’m not upset.”

“Yes you are, I can tell,” he counters stubbornly, yet without losing his cool. “What is it?”

"Look, I don’t want to talk about it,” she grits out, feeling her frustration reach a boiling point.

“Was it the surprise thing?” he probes. ”I know you don’t like surprises, but this is a good one, isn’t it?”

“I said I _don’t_ want to talk about it!” she explodes, not realizing she has raised her voice until she hears it echo around the room. At the same time, the house rattles like it’s been hit by a mild earthquake and the fireplace comes alive with a roaring ball of blue flames. Hermione gasps slightly at the intensity of her outburst and Harry takes a step back, shocked.

There is a long, tense silence. The house settles, the flames shrink, and the portrait of Walburga Black awakens with a mighty screech and starts to spout profanities. With a weary sigh, Harry fishes his wand from the back pocket of his jeans and goes to deal with it. Meanwhile, Hermione dries her ring on a tea towel and slides it back onto her finger. By the time Harry returns, she is clearing the rest of the mud off of her clothes with the scouring charm.

“So this is why you’ve been avoiding everybody lately.” He leans against the doorframe and folds his arms. “I thought you said you were better.” His voice is light, almost casual, but she sees irritation, maybe even resentment, in the stiff lines of his face and body.

She shrugs and puts her wand away. “It comes and goes. You know how it is.” She pulls out a chair, drags it closer to the fireplace, sits down and puts out her hands to warm them. “Some days I’m so angry I could punch a hole through a wall, for no discernible reason.” In truth, she can think of a few reasons, but bringing them up would be pointless. “Some days it’s like I can’t feel anything. Some days I have these outbursts.”

“And you didn’t think to tell _me_ , your best friend, because...?”

“Because it’s embarrassing,” she admits, pulling her knees up to her chest. “And because I thought I had it under control.”

Harry laughs, a quiet, breathy sound that barely makes it past his mouth. “Hermione, you’re an extraordinary person, but even you can’t control PTSD.”

Ignoring his compliment, she rolls her eyes. “I know that. I just meant—it wasn’t like this back at Hogwarts. Most days were normal. But ever since I graduated…” She trails off, shakes her head. He’s got the gist. No point in elaborating.

“You should’ve told me,” he insists, grabbing a chair for himself and taking a seat next to her. “You don’t have to just endure this. Why don’t you get counselling?”

She immediately clicks her tongue and throws him a disbelieving look. “Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t go around telling Muggles I was a child soldier in a secret Wizarding War against the magical equivalent of Adolf Hitler. For starters, it’s forbidden by the Statute of Secrecy. Plus, who’d believe me? Any counsellor would think I’m psychotic and cart me off to the insane asylum.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Actually, I do. Unlike you, I’ve met Muggle counsellors. I know how they think.”

“What does that mean?” He frowns. “You’ve had counselling before?”

“When I was a child,” she confirms, averting her gaze and wishing she could take it back. She’s never talked about this with anyone and she doesn’t want to start now. “Before I went to Hogwarts, there were… incidents.”

“Incidents,” he repeats tonelessly. “What kind of—”

“Magical outbursts,” she clarifies. “When I got very upset, or felt a very strong emotion, stuff would just start happening around me and I couldn’t control it.”

“Well, you must have been very little,” he reasons affably, taking off his glasses and wiping them on the fabric of his shirt. “That sort of thing’s normal, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Most outbursts were quite harmless, but one time—” She cuts herself off, clears her throat. She’d vastly prefer not to tell that particular story. “Even the harmless ones make you think you’re mental, anyhow.”

“Wait, what were you going to say?” He looks up at her quickly, in a way that makes her think of an animal that’s heard the call of its kin, suddenly, from a distance. He’s still holding his glasses in his left hand. “One time what?”

She bites her lip and stretches out her legs towards the fireplace, trying to get comfortable. “One of them was quite serious,” she elaborates, extremely reluctantly. “That’s why I had to have counselling afterwards.”

“Serious how? What happened?”

Unable to sit still while they discuss this, Hermione gets up and starts to pace the room, wishing that what she’s about to tell him had happened to someone else. “You know how in every school there’s a bunch of mean girls?” she begins. “There was this girl at my school—Rosamund Jones. She and her gang would pick on me all the time. I got used to it, really.” She shrugs, though there’s nothing casual about the way her stomach is turning itself into knots. “I tried not to care. But one day they cornered me in the girls’ bathroom. One of them watched the door, so no one else would come in. They, uh…” She sighs, bracing herself. “They made me get on my knees and they pinned my arms back. Then Rosamund pulled a dead frog out of her backpack. She’d stolen it from her Biology class.” Hermione shakes her head, mouth pursed in disgust, and adds: “She said she was going to make me eat it.”

Harry looks appalled and furious all at once. “What the fuck.”

“I know.” She grimaces. “I tried to run but they were stronger than me. Older, too. They had it all figured out and no one was coming to help me.”

“What did you do?”

Hermione folds her arms but she can’t keep her fingers from trembling a little. Though she hasn’t revisited these memories in years, she remembers the moment vividly—the fear she felt then, visceral and paralyzing, the ringing in her ears and the tunnel vision. “I can’t explain it, really. She was dangling the frog right in front of my face. I asked her to stop, and she just mocked me. Then I just looked at her and she started convulsing.”

Harry’s jaw goes slack. Hermione can practically see the gears turning in his brain as he weighs, then rules out—she supposes—a number of possible responses. Finally he pulls himself together and asks, “Are you serious?”

Hermione hums her assent. “She fell to the floor and started seizing and bleeding from her nose and mouth. I think she hit her head pretty bad, too. Her friends were hysterical.”

“Fucking hell.”

Hermione merely nods, and for a moment they are silent. Then Harry speaks again: “Tell me you didn’t get blamed for that.”

“Well, they had to blame someone,” she replies airily, keeping her face blank and picking at her cuticles, as if she were retelling a frivolous anecdote, rather than one of her most painful memories. “She certainly didn’t do that to herself.”

“But they couldn’t have known it was you,” he protests. “No Muggle could ever imagine—”

“Oh, believe me, they imagined it,” she fills in, the corners of her mouth twisting into a faint, bitter smile. “They couldn’t prove it had anything to do with me, obviously. Rosamund’s parents wanted me expelled, but the school board couldn’t abide it—there were no grounds for it, really, as far as they could see. So the headmaster and my parents came to an agreement that I would stay until the end of term and then discreetly transfer somewhere else.”

She feels very tired suddenly, like she’s facing the aftermath of an adrenaline rush. Slowly, she drags her chair away from the fireplace and back to its former spot and sits at the table with her shoulders hunched. “Those last few weeks were brutal,” she muses, low, as she runs her fingers back and forth along the grain of the wood. “People wouldn’t talk to me unless they absolutely had to. Teachers couldn’t look me in the eye. Friends of Rosamund’s family fouled up our front lawn every day, graffitied all sorts of nasty messages on our garage door— _Witch bitch_ , that sort of thing. Her father and mine got into a fistfight in the school parking lot. It was complete insanity.”

Harry seems to need a minute to process all this. Afterwards, in a voice as dim as hers just was, he asks, “What happened to the girl?”

“She survived,” Hermione answers curtly, hoping he won’t expect her to elaborate.

After another pause, he speaks again: “And how old were you?”

“Ten.”

“ _Christ,_ ” he says. In her peripheral vision, she sees him briefly press his hands over his mouth. “I’m so sorry, Hermione, I had no idea.”

She only shrugs, but he comes over to sit across from her, reaches out and takes her hands in his. Startled, she looks up at him, and his expression is so earnest and compassionate that she almost wants to cry. “I’m serious,” he insists, rubbing his thumbs over her wrists. “That was a horrific thing to go through.”

Hermione is suddenly reminded of the first and only time her parents took her to get an MRI. This was shortly after The Incident, and was meant to rule out the possibility of a brain tumour or any other kind of neurological abnormality. No one, of course, believed her to have any sort of superhuman abilities—in fact, many believed that she was an incurable liar who’d say anything to get attention—but there had been many strange occurrences in the Granger household, for which Hermione could only provide the most outlandish explanations, and so the family GP began to worry she may be suffering from severe hallucinations. On the day of the MRI, Hermione’s parents behaved very strangely. Her father, usually so easy-going and friendly, was silent and watchful throughout the whole appointment—a sign, as his family well knew, that he was extremely cross. Meanwhile Hermione’s mother, who never was particularly touchy-feely, held Hermione tight until the very moment when the nurses took her away for the test, as if she couldn’t bear to let her little girl go.

Something in Harry’s demeanour now brings to mind that same desperate apprehension, and the frightful pity in the nurses’ eyes, and all of a sudden Hermione can’t bear to be touched or even looked at. With a feeble smile, she gently, yet decisively pulls her hands back and looks away. “There are worse childhoods,” she remarks evenly. “As you know all too well.”

Harry’s face falls a little. “Yeah, but I had you and Ron and—Wait a second,” he interrupts himself, frowning. “Does Ron know about this?”

“He does not,” she replies, “and I intend to keep it that way.”

“But why? Why not tell him?”

She scoffs incredulously. “Because he’d never look at me the same way again. He’d think I’m a freak.”

“But you’re not.”

“Aren’t I?” she retorts, standing up and pacing around again for want of something to do. “In my short life, I have set a teacher on fire, turned a woman into a beetle and kept her in a jar for months, and permanently disfigured a teenager’s face for betraying Dumbledore’s Army. I also erased my parents’ memories and sent them off to Australia. Oh, yeah, and I inflicted near-death injuries on a classmate at the age of ten. I really am a witch bitch.”

Harry winces and sternly says, “Don’t call yourself that.”

“Oh grow up, Harry. I deserve it.”

“No, you don’t. What happened to that little girl was terrible, but it wasn’t your fault,” he explains, like a teacher armed with infinite patience. “It’s like when I turned Aunt Marge into a giant balloon. Magic isn’t something you can control one hundred per cent of the time.”

“You’re conveniently ignoring all the horrible things I did on purpose,” she bites back, irritated. “Magic’s not the crazy. _I_ am the crazy.”

“You’re not crazy,” he argues, looking extremely disappointed with this turn in the conversation. “You’re a hero.”

“Oh, save it, will you?” she chastises him crossly. “I don’t want to be a hero. I want to be normal. In fact, that’s what I’m gonna do.” In one swift motion, she walks over to the fireplace, pulls out her wand and puts out the fire. “I’m gonna get over myself, go back to the Burrow and just act normal.”

Harry stands up abruptly and demands, “If you’re so normal, why did you leave the party in the first place?”

“Well, let’s see. Because I drank too much, so I wasn’t feeling well, so I needed some air,” she lies, on the fly. “But now I’m better, so I’m going back.”

“Why not just tell him the truth?” Harry takes off his glasses again and rubs the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

She doesn’t have a reasonable answer for that, so she just stares daggers at him and haughtily says, “I don’t have to explain my decisions to you.”

“You mean you can’t,” Harry infers, his voice cold and angry.

For the first time all night, the eyes she loves so much look unkindly upon her. It’s hurtful, and at the same time obscurely satisfying, to know that she’s finally made him angry. Hermione shivers and electricity crackles at her fingertips. Then she feels very calm, like one resigned to her fate. “Harry, go fuck yourself,” she says, and leaves him alone.

***

**february 2003**

7:19 PM

She tries the doorbell again. Maybe it isn’t working properly, or maybe she’s just out of luck. If no one comes, she may legitimately sit down on the front steps and weep out of sheer frustration and bitterness. It has been a long, trying day. Last night, for the second time in her life, she packed the essentials and left the place she called home without looking back. It doesn’t ever get easier.

Could it be that no one’s home, despite the light she sees in one of the upstairs windows? If so, she’ll have to face another sleepless night in the eerie, empty silence of her parents’ house, surrounded by furniture covered in dusty white sheets. There’s no one else to turn to, and it’s not like she can blow her savings on a hotel room.

Starting to lose hope, Hermione tries the knocker too and hunches against the biting cold as the breeze toys with the wind chimes hanging from the branches of a stately tree that stands in the next-door-neighbour’s front garden. A moment later, the door swings open with a loud creak and Luna appears, smiling good-naturedly and wiping her hands on a wet rag. She’s wearing a thick, striped jumper with the sleeves rolled up under a denim overall and mismatched woollen socks. Her hair is gathered into two long braids and her face and forearms are stained with paint. In other words, she looks entirely like herself. Hermione can’t help but find it a little bit endearing.

“Hi, Luna.”

“Hi, Hermione,” she says, greeting her as naturally as if they saw each other all the time. “I had a feeling you’d be coming around.”

“You did?” Hermione gives Luna a tentative little smile, humouring her apparent clairvoyance. “How come?”

“Tarot,” Luna says succinctly, as she stands aside to let Hermione pass. “Come on in, make yourself comfortable. I’m just gonna finish washing up.”

Murmuring her thanks, Hermione walks into the house, takes off her coat, hangs it on a rack along with her beaded bag and follows Luna down a narrow hallway that ultimately opens into a large living room. Before they reach it, however, Luna ducks into a doorway on the right-hand side and Hermione finds herself at the threshold of a tiny, cluttered kitchen. Luna turns on the tap to wash her hands and Hermione hovers awkwardly in the doorway, reluctant to wait in the other room by herself and unsure what to do. What exactly is the social protocol to follow on such an occasion? If she just says what she’s come to say, she risks being rude, but if she pretends this is a regular social visit and beats around the bush, she risks insulting Luna’s intelligence. She’s still deliberating with herself when Luna’s soft voice, muffled by the sound of running water, interrupts her inner monologue:

“Can I offer you something to drink? Tea? Or maybe something stronger?”

“Er, I dunno. What do you have?”

“Not much, unfortunately. If we’d known you were coming we’d have stocked up,” Luna replies, her fingers ghosting over shelves, opening and closing drawers.

“No, don’t worry about it, I know I shouldn’t have turned up out of the blue like this.”

“Nonsense. What are friends for?” Luna says kindly, stooping to inspect the contents of the refrigerator. “Here, I’ve found something,” she announces triumphantly. “We can make Cuba libres. Is that alright?”

“Yeah, that sounds brilliant, Luna,” Hermione says, perking up to see the bottles her friend is cradling in her arms. “Don’t let me have more than one, though. I’m still recovering from my last hangover.”

“Two Cuba libres coming.” Luna stands up, sets the bottles on the kitchen counter and busies herself with the preparations. “You know the best hangover cure is stripping naked under a full moon and rubbing a bezoar counter-clockwise over your whole body for fifty-five minutes and five seconds, right?” Hermione blinks, baffled, and Luna’s eyes crinkle with mischief. “That was a joke.”

Hermione laughs, loud and sudden, like a bark bursting almost painfully from the back of her throat. “Oh my god,” she says. “Thanks, Luna, I needed that.”

“You’re very welcome. I can get you some Advil, if it helps with the hangover,” Luna adds, as she sets the cocktails she’s just mixed on a tray, picks it up and starts for the living room.

“Oh, I don’t need it right now, but thank you,” Hermione says, trailing after her. “Is Neville around?” She was rather hoping she wouldn’t have to talk to Luna alone. In truth, Hermione has never known quite how to relate to Luna on a one-to-one basis.

“He’s out with friends,” Luna explains, setting the tray on a small, round table in front of the sofa. “Not sure what time he’s coming back. Do you want me to go get him?”

“Oh, no, no need to bother him,” Hermione replies, sitting on the edge of the sofa with her hands on her knees. “I was just curious. How are you, Luna?”

“Dandy,” Luna says cheerfully, earnestly, as she flops onto a nearby armchair and tucks one leg underneath the other. “And you?”

“Er… I’m not doing brilliantly at the moment, to be honest.”

“Oh, no.” Luna’s eyebrows lift and tilt slightly, giving her face a look of curiosity mingled with concern. She leans forward with her chin in her hands. “Would you like to talk about it?”

Hermione scoffs. “Not really, but given the circumstances…” She sighs, racks a hand through her hair, and then very quickly explains: “It’s kind of a long story, but basically, my marriage is over. I left home last night and went to my parents’. I need somewhere to live until I can get a place of my own. And I was wondering if you still have that spare bedroom that Dean used to rent.”

“Yup, it’s empty at the moment,” Luna says, reaching for her glass. “He moved out about a month ago. We’ve been meaning to start looking for a new housemate.”

“Oh, brilliant,” Hermione says, feeling hopeful for the first time in days. Mirroring Luna, she grabs her drink and sips on it slowly, pacing herself. “Could I take it, then? I don’t know how much the rent is, but I’ll get you the money as soon as you want it.”

Luna lifts up a hand as if to silence her. “Don’t worry about that part yet. Do you have everything you need with you?”

“Uh, yeah, I packed the basics,” Hermione replies, slightly confused by the sudden turn in the conversation. “I’ll need to get the rest of my stuff from our—that is, from Ron’s flat,” she corrects herself, flushing self-consciously.

“I can help you with that, if you like.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind. I was just gonna hire a moving company or something. I don’t think we can carry all of my stuff by ourselves in a single trip.”

“We can borrow a van from a friend of mine,” Luna suggests, stretching lazily against the back of the armchair. “It should be big enough for all of it, but we can always enlarge it.”

“That could work,” Hermione concedes thoughtfully. “Only I don’t have a driving license.”

“I do,” Luna pipes up confidently. “I’ll drive us.”

Hermione lets out a surprised little chuckle. “Oh. Cool. Problem solved, then.” Feeling considerably more relaxed than she did when she came in, she finishes her drink and says, “Are you sure I can come live here, then?”

“I’d be happy to have you.” Luna sets her own empty glass on the coffee table. “I’m sure Neville won’t mind either. We’ll ask him when he gets back.”

“Alright. Sounds good.”

“Even if he’s not on board about Dean’s room, you’re welcome to stay the night here,” Luna adds, leaning forward again with her hands laced in front of her. Her keen, kind gaze zeroes in on Hermione. “I have a spare mattress in my bedroom. It’s yours if you need it, for as long as you need it.”

Hermione’s eyes well up with sudden tears of gratitude. “Thank you,” she says, around the knot in her throat. “That’s really helpful.”

“Cool. I’m gonna go find clean bed sheets and get you set up, then,” Luna says pragmatically. Just as she stands up, however, there’s the sound of keys in the door and Neville comes into the house, humming a tune under his breath and wobbling slightly as he walks the length of the hallway. When he gets to the living room, he stops in his tracks, comically shocked, and asks his housemate, “Luna, is Hermione sitting on our sofa, or am I hallucinating?”

Hermione lets out a breathy chuckle and stands up. “Hi, Neville. I’m really here.”

“Oh, hi there,” he says, sounding relieved. “Sorry about that, I’m knackered.” He walks over and gives her an awkward, affectionate half-hug. “Were we expecting you?”

“No, sorry, I just showed up,” she replies, nervously smoothing her hands down her jeans.

“No need to be sorry, it’s good to see you,” he says, looking her over. “It’s been a minute.”

“Yeah, I think last time was Christmas, wasn’t it?”

“New Year’s,” Luna corrects her sheepishly.

“Oh yeah, that’s right. New Year’s it is.”

For a moment there’s an awkward silence. Luna goes into the kitchen. Hermione slowly sits back down. Neville sits on the armchair Luna just vacated and immediately springs back up, clapping a hand to his forehead. “Sorry, I haven’t offered you anything. That’s a bit rude.”

Hermione suppresses a laugh. “Oh, nonono, it’s alright, Neville, Luna’s made me a drink already, see?” she says, gesturing to their empty glasses on the coffee table. “Go on and sit down, you look like you need it.”

“I’m making tea,” Luna calls out. “Are you two having any?”

“Ugh, yes please,” Neville calls back, screwing his eyes shut and lowering himself carefully back onto the armchair. “And will you please bring me the Advil?”

“I’ll get it for you,” Hermione cuts in, setting off at once despite his muttered protestations. When she comes into the kitchen, Luna is carefully spooning loose leaf tea into an infuser.

“Are you having tea as well?”

“Yes, please,” Hermione replies. “And where’s the Advil?”

She finds a clean glass on the rack beside the sink and fills it with tap water. Luna points her to the pack of Advil on a shelf, and Hermione picks it up and carries it back to Neville along with the glass of water, both of which he takes from her hands with a look of abject gratitude. “Appreciate that,” he slurs. He takes the pill at once and gulps down the whole glass very quickly.

“No worries.”

“I’m never drinking again,” Neville mutters, more to himself than to her. “So, what’s up? How are you?”

“Not too great, actually,” she admits, knowing there’s no point in lying about it. “As it turns out, I, uh... I left home last night.”

“Hermione was hoping she could come live with us for a while,” Luna intercedes gracefully, as she comes into the room carrying a tray with three colourful teacups and a teapot. “You know, rent Dean’s old room?”

“Well, of course you can, but what’s going on? Are you in any trouble?”

Hermione clicks her tongue, slightly amused by his concern, and clears the used glasses off the table so Luna can set the tray on it. Part of her wishes that she had another stiff drink to hide behind. “Only the kind you get yourself into.”

“Beg pardon?”

“I don’t think she wants to go into specifics, Nevs.” When Luna finishes pouring the tea, she sits on the sofa alongside Hermione.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll have to face it one way or the other,” Hermione says briskly. “The thing is, Neville, I’m divorcing Ron. It’s just over, between us, for a lot of reasons. The latest one being that I cheated on him.”

“Bloody ‘ell.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” he says earnestly, reaching out across the gap between them to squeeze her hand. “Kinda sounds like you were right,” he muses, half-turning to his housemate.

“What does that mean?” Hermione asks, the depressing enormity of her impending divorce momentarily giving way to her curiosity.

Luna looks startled and slightly self-conscious for the first time all night. “Oh, it’s nothing,” she answers, shrugging a dismissive shoulder and half-hiding behind her teacup. “Just something the tarot told me.”

“It was after we saw you and Ron on New Year’s Eve,” Neville explains, failing to notice Luna’s warning looks. “You both looked kind of miserable and Ginny said you’d been fighting.”

“Well, yeah. We had a massive row on Boxing Day and things just got worse from there,” Hermione confides, narrowing her eyes and studying Luna’s evasive expression for clues. “What does your tarot have to do with it?”

Luna sighs, sets down her teacup and half-turns to look at her. “I asked the tarot about you two that night,” she explains bashfully. “I wanted to know if you two would be okay and if there was anything we could do to help. The same card kept coming up no matter how I phrased the question.”

“And what card was that?”

“The Tower,” Luna supplies quietly. “The quintessential harbinger of change. Commonly interpreted as an omen of chaos, upheaval and destruction.”

“Oh.” Hermione blinks at her friend, dumbfounded. “Well. Yes. I suppose you’ve just summed up the present state of my life.”

“Actually, cards aren’t supposed to be interpreted literally—”

“Let’s just all forget about it,” Neville pipes up, gesturing for Luna to stop. His face twists into an apologetic grimace. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. Look, Hermione, the point is, we’d love to have you.” He looks to Luna for confirmation and she nods enthusiastically. “As long as you’re sure that’s what you want.”

“I’m sure,” Hermione says, and even though it’s clear that she could simply leave it at that, she feels compelled to elaborate. “Like, we gave it three years, you know? And I really tried. But we’ve just been unhappy for a long time.” As a necessary afterthought, and with a rueful little smirk, she adds: “Not that that justifies the cheating.”

“Well, no,” Neville concurs quietly, looking conflicted. “It’s just a shame it had to end this way.”

“Yeah. It really is.”

“How did Ron take it?” Luna asks.

“Quite badly,” Hermione reveals, pausing to take a sip of her tea. “I think he didn’t believe me until he saw me packing my things and then he was so outraged—kept trying to talk me into staying. When he saw that he couldn’t, he just flew off the handle and took off.”

“That sounds rough,” Luna remarks, frowning.

“It was.”

“Forgive my curiosity but—what happened?” Neville asks suddenly. “Did you fall in love with someone else?”

“Oh, god, no, nothing like that,” Hermione replies quickly, making a sweeping gesture with her right hand to dismiss the very idea of it. She’s only been in love with one person, her whole life, and it’s not Draco Malfoy. Nor is it Ron, as much as she’s spent the last five years trying to convince herself that it is. “It was a one-night-stand sort of thing. I was a little drunk and it just happened.”

“Ohhhh, I see.” Neville nods a few times and leans back against the armchair. “Well, no use crying over spilt Polyjuice, as my gran likes to say.” For a moment he’s silent, drinking his tea with a thoughtful expression on his face. Then he sets down his teacup and addresses her again: “Now listen, no offense, Hermione, but you look terrible. Have you eaten at all today?”

She hesitates briefly, pondering the question. She remembers skipping breakfast early in the morning because she felt queasy from too little sleep, and having a croissant with her first coffee of the day on her way to work, and the small salad she had for lunch and washed down with several more coffees during the afternoon. That is all. “Not properly,” she admits. Her stomach growls as if on cue, and Luna giggles.

“Then let’s go get dinner somewhere,” Neville says, standing up decisively. “Or we could do takeaway if you’re too tired to go out.”

“I… yeah, I’d rather stay in if that’s okay,” Hermione says, standing up as well. She should go make her bed in Luna’s room for the night, but she feels faint and exhausted from stress and sleep-deprivation. She’ll probably feel stronger after she’s eaten something.

“Alright then, let’s make it happen,” Neville says merrily, heading for the kitchen. “And do we have any snacks? I’m starving.”

“All that’s left is some crisps,” Luna informs him. “You forgot to do the grocery shopping.” For Hermione’s ears only, she stage-whispers _Again_ , her eyes twinkling with amusement and fondness.

“Well, that’s embarrassing,” he remarks, as he pops back into the hallway and approaches with a bag of crisps in one hand and a bundle of restaurant brochures in the other. “I’ll get them first thing tomorrow, before my classes.” Grabbing a handful of crisps and passing the bag to his housemate, he addresses Hermione: “Now, let’s get dinner sorted. What would you like? Dumplings? Pasta? Shawarmas?”

Suddenly Hermione is filled with a relief that has less to do with the prospect of a proper meal and a good night’s rest in a safe place than it does with the realization that her friends have her back. Smiling brightly for the first time in days, she says, “Pasta would be lovely.”

***

11:36 PM

After running for an hour, his body feels very warm, but the air is still so cold that it almost hurts with each inhalation. As usual, the streets are almost empty at this time of night, but when he cuts across the park, a big, dark brown Belgian shepherd zooms past him in the opposite direction, dragging his broken leash along. Seconds later, the dog’s owner follows in its footsteps, looking haggard and miserable. After watching them for a moment, Draco proceeds along his route, comes out of the park and rounds the corner. As he comes close to the end of his jog, he sees a small figure huddling on the front steps of his building—a homeless person, most likely, though homeless people are a rarity in this quiet, wealthy neighbourhood. Then, as he slows down for the last few meters, the figure unfolds and lifts up its face to the neon glare of the streetlights and turns out to be Hermione Granger. Draco comes to an abrupt halt, suddenly feeling shabby and caught off-guard.

“Granger, hello,” he greets her coolly, resisting the urge to comb his sweaty hair into a more presentable shape.

“Hi, Draco,” she says, standing up and dusting herself off. She’s wearing faded blue jeans, a pair of chestnut-brown Oxfords and the same worn grey coat she had on yesterday. She looks tired and unkempt, like she hasn’t slept a wink since the last time he saw her, and it makes him wonder if she’s been home at all in the last twenty-four hours.

Not bothering to mask his confusion, he flat-out asks, “Are you stalking me?”

She lets out a fleeting chuckle and arches an eyebrow, playful. “Would you like me to say yes?”

“Obviously,” he deadpans. “In fact, I’m really flattered. A little disturbed, as well.”

“Look, I rang the doorbell, okay?” she explains, folding her arms defensively. “You were out, weren’t you?”

“So you decided to sit here and wait for me? Granger, how _romantic_.”

“If that’s what you need to tell yourself,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes, ducking her head and shoving her hands into her pockets. “Are you gonna invite me in or what?”

Draco feels his eyebrows climb to the middle of his forehead. “Have you been drinking again?” He tries to read her expression and comes up empty.

“Ugh, no. Believe it or not, I’m doing this fully sober.”

“Just making sure.”

“Yes, thank you, Draco, we’ve established that you’re a gentleman. Are we going to stand here all night?”

He snorts, bemused by her impatience, and takes the three shorts steps up to the entrance. Then he buzzes the door open, props it in place with his hip, and beckons her in. “After you.”

Together, they take the lift and ride it in silence. When they come into his flat, he goes straight for the refrigerator, pulls out a water bottle and takes a long swig as Hermione closes the door behind them, takes off her coat and hangs it on the peg. When he’s done with the water, he offers her a drink, but she declines.

Slowly, watchfully, she saunters over until she’s leaning over one side of the kitchen aisle. “Am I officially in charge of making the first move every time?” she asks, studying him with those big brown eyes of hers as he shuts the refrigerator and turns to face her. “I’m not complaining, it’s just an observation.”

Draco clears his throat and allows himself a self-conscious chuckle. “I, uh… I suppose I just assumed you like to be in charge.”

“Because you’ve always known me as a bossy know-it-all?”

“Basically,” he concurs, with a couple of nods. “Also I’m still adjusting to this whole—” He pauses, makes a vague sort of gesture that encompasses the space between them and takes a moment to find the right word. “—arrangement,” he concludes diplomatically. “I’m honestly astounded that fraternising with the enemy once wasn’t enough for you.”

“I don’t think of you as my enemy,” she replies quietly.

She seems earnest, but he doesn’t know her well enough to be sure. In any case, he has no idea how to respond, because if they aren’t enemies, what are they? Her wedding ring, he notes, is conspicuously absent. While he ponders this, Hermione bridges the gap between them and comes to stand in front of him. She sneaks her cold hands under his clothes, presses them flat against his chest and stands on her tiptoes to capture his mouth in hers. He stoops to meet her halfway, each closing their eyes only for a couple of seconds. Unthinkingly, he backs her up against the counter and her muffled whimper sends a jolt down to his cock.

“This is the part where you take off my clothes, etcetera,” she instructs in a low, breathy voice.

He smirks a little, amused. “Hey, give me some credit. I’m not a complete dunce, you know.”

“Well, you said to take charge, didn’t you?”

But instead of playing along with her banter, he falls silent, taking her in: the tangle of her long, messy hair, the purple bags under her eyes, the paleness of her skin. Suddenly he wants unexpected things: to bathe her and wash her hair, to hold her wet body close, to wrap her in a silk robe and lay her down on his soft bed. There will be time for that at some point, if she allows it. For now, he hooks his hands around the back of her knees and hoists her easily onto the counter, then proceeds to peel off her chunky blue sweater and the striped turtleneck underneath. Meanwhile, she pulls off his hoodie and his henley and starts to lick his neck above his pulse point.

A few seconds later, she stops. “Are you sweating right now?” she demands, pulling back, her nose wrinkling involuntarily. “You taste salty.”

The thought of his taste in her mouth nearly short-circuits his brain, but he makes an effort to concentrate. “I’ve just come back from a run. You saw me,” he reminds her. “I should actually take a shower.” Then, bravely, he suggests, “Maybe you’d like to join me?”

“As a matter of fact, I would,” she agrees, smiling pleasantly, and then leans close to whisper in his ear something so filthy that they barely make it to the shower at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) About the timeline: The present-day section of this chapter is set about 24 hours after the events of chapter 1.  
> 2) About the worldbuilding: The bullying incident which Hermione describes is, of course, my own invention. JK never gave us much information about her past prior to her time at Hogwarts so I’ve taken it upon myself to fill some of those gaps here and there. That being said, I am both non-British and a little younger than the main characters of this fic so I apologize if I’ve misrepresented any aspects of their upbringing, culture, habits, speech, etcetera.  
> 3) About the worldbuilding, part II: We don’t know enough about mental health in the Wizarding World. Based on what little I can gather from the books and movies, I can imagine wizards and witches developing specialized potions that perform functions equivalent to those of Muggle medications, but as far as I can recall we don’t have any evidence of practices equivalent to talking therapy/psychoanalysis, CBT, and so on in the Wizarding World. Therefore, I think someone struggling with a mental health condition, as Hermione does at this point of the story, would naturally think of resorting to Muggle therapies and practitioners, particularly if they had been raised as Muggles (as indeed Hermione and Harry both have). I hope that makes sense!  
> 4) Chapter title taken from the Lianne La Havas song of the same name.  
> 5) Beta’d by my wonderful BFF and fellow H/Hr enthusiast @comeatmejackrobinson. Any grammatical mistakes or inaccuracies are my own.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) About the timeline: This is a post-series AU, mostly canon-compliant through the end of Deathly Hallows. This fic explores Hermione’s life in the years following the end of the series, with a focus on her relationships to other characters in the saga, particularly Harry. I’m ignoring the DH epilogue because it’s completely useless and I’ve always despised it, and I’m ignoring Cursed Child because I don’t intend to read it. I did however read a summary of the play, as well as plenty of character wikis, to help fill in my sense of these characters’ future selves, so you may recognize some elements of that lore in my worldbuilding.  
> 2) Relatedly, I know that in-canon all the Malfoys avoided prison sentences, but I never found that realistic. In this universe, both Draco and Narcissa were pardoned for having been on Voldemort’s side, but Lucius was sentenced to a long imprisonment in Azkaban. I’ll probably address this explicitly at some point in future chapters but just in case I thought I’d explain it here.  
> 3) Fic title taken from Jane Hirshfield’s poem “Three Foxes by the Edge of the Field at Twilight” which is one of my all time faves. Read it here: https://poets.org/poem/three-foxes-edge-field-twilight  
> 4) Chapter title taken from the famous Edward Hopper painting of the same name.  
> 5) Hermione is going to be something of an unreliable narrator throughout this story, so don’t worry if you feel a little bit confused at times—you’re supposed to.  
> 


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